


To Yourself, To Me & All My Friends

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (literally just before the game), Angst, Animal Death, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, and a dash of creative geography, everyone leave Pearson alone he is doing His Best, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: “Oh, just look at the two of you! Tireless! Fearless!Peerless!”Was a time when such high praise from Dutch would set something in Arthur’s chest glowing for days. But now, looking around – at the blood up to Swanson’s elbows, at John’s grimace as Abigail ties off a makeshift bandage, at the two horribly still figures lying in the back of the second wagon, at all the frightened faces watching him – he just feels oddly hollow.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Leonard "Lenny" Summers, Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Tilly Jackson & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 50
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags ya’ll.
> 
> Title comes from the refrain in ‘Iron Sky’ by Sunrise Avenue:  
>  _You’re a danger to yourself, and to me and all my friends,  
>  If you underestimate them;  
> Because they’re savage to the bone, and they’ll never leave you alone,  
> Until they have taken your head._

There’s smoke rising from Blackwater.

As far as towns go, it’s not the worst Arthur’s ever been to – a boomtown for sure, not the small trading post Dutch and Hosea had promised, but not the ‘metropolis’ boasted upon railway station posters either. It sprawls along the shoreline of Flat Iron, but it’s still only a few streets wide; still easy enough to escape from when the crowds and the noise and the civilisation all get too much. Full of corruption and greed, of course, but still small and new and hopeful enough to not yet be smothered by smog and rubbish, to not be littered with waifs and strays that didn’t manage to get swept up in the flow of money running through the town. That same flow of money Dutch thought they could divert to themselves.

But now smoke, thick and black, billows from the northern end of town, turning the late afternoon sky a dirty brown, and Arthur’s sure the horror on Hosea’s face is reflected on his own. All thoughts of real estate deeds and rich, gullible city slickers vanish as they dig their heels in, spurring the horses back to camp across the dusty golden plains.

When they get there, it’s in disarray. Those not involved in the ferry job are ducking in and out of half-collapsed tents, scrambling to pack up. Miss Grimshaw is whirling around camp like an irate hurricane, snapping at folks to pack that crate and wrap that canvas and for God’s sake man, pull yourself together! Karen is cursing up a storm as she and Uncle try to cram a trunk into an already-full wagon and send the contents toppling over the side. Pearson is using one of the stew pots as a box, throwing random canned food in then trying to lug it into the cook wagon. Swanson is fervently praying as he stumbles over to another wagon with an armful of medical supplies, and even Molly is trying to coax two draft horses into harnesses.

Arthur does a double take, heart sinking when he realises one of them is Old Boy, but John’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hosea! Arthur!”

Abigail rushes over to them, a bedroll bundled under one arm, and clinging to Jack’s hand with the other.

“Please, you gotta- Ennis and Old Boy came back on their own, we haven’t heard any- we don’t know if-”

“Abigail, Abigail, breathe, my dear. Slow down,” Hosea soothes, gently clasping her by the shoulders even though his own face is creased with worry. “Now start from the beginning – what’s happened?”

Abigail takes a shaky breath but nods.

“The raid party left just before dawn, just like Dutch planned...”

Dutch’s ‘plan’ being hitting a ferry carrying money destined for the Blackwater bank. He and the new fella, Micah Bell, had been _sure_ it was worth the risk, that it’d be easy money. Law got real complacent with boats, Mr. Bell had assured them – ain’t like anyone’s going to sneak up on them in the middle of the lake, so security is lax. Before the money was moved into guarded wagons, they’d have a window to get on the boat and make off with the cash, all packaged up for easy transport already. Arthur had had his doubts, but Dutch had been convinced they could pull it off. So Hosea and Arthur had left them yesterday afternoon, heading out to Manzanita Post – to ‘scope out additional prospects’ with their would-be fellow ‘investors’ – making sure they were seen in the area, well away from Blackwater and the robbery that was meant to occur in the early hours of the morning. After robbing the ferry, the raid party would vanish across the plains into New Austin. Those left back at the camp full of ‘itinerant workers’ would pack up soon afterwards, fleeing the ‘violence’ of Blackwater, and they were all supposed to meet in Hennigan’s Stead. 

“But, something went wrong,” Abigail continues, “that ferry’s supposed to arrive at six o’clock sharp – you know, we see it every morning! But, today it didn’t come in until well after noon.” 

“And they still hit it?!” Arthur exclaims as Hosea pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We don’t know what happened – it seemed quiet for a while, then suddenly we could hear all this gunfire, and then- oh, oh no...”

They turn to follow her gaze, and Arthur’s heart sinks further. Lenny’s pushing Maggie hard up the hill to camp, holding the reins with one hand, and clutching at the arms wrapped around his stomach with the other. His passenger is so covered in blood, it takes Arthur a moment to realise who it is.

“Help! Help, Miss Grimshaw, Reverend, they, she-!”

From the corner of his eye Arthur sees Abigail hurry Jack away as he and Hosea rush forward to help pull Jenny’s motionless form from the saddle.

“The hell’s goin’ on, Lenny?” Arthur growls as they lower her to the ground.

“It was an ambush – law showed up outta nowhere!” Lenny answers shakily, stumbling as he dismounts. “We got pinned down – they covered me so I could get Jenny out, but everyone else is still stuck on the south side of town. Is she...?” 

“Still breathing – just,” Hosea declares grimly, pulling off his neckerchief to press against the bloody mess of her chest.

“Dear Lord, what happened?!” Miss Grimshaw cries as everyone else rushes over. “Reverend, get your things, Mr. Morgan, help me get her onto a cot-”

“No!” Hosea barks, straightening, eyes blazing in the light of the sunset. “Get her into a wagon and get her out of here. Everyone else, pack the absolute essentials and follow. What doesn’t get packed in the next five minutes gets left behind. Head west, and don’t stop for nothin’ or no one! Arthur, with me! You too Lenny, if you think you can still shoot?”

Lenny nods belatedly, looking a little stunned. Probably ain’t been around long enough to have ever seen Hosea take command like that, Arthur thinks absently as he helps Swanson get Jenny into a wagon, before heading for where Boadicea’s already stamping and tossing her head in anticipation. He checks his revolver, pulls his bandana up and his hat brim down, eyeing the smoking silhouette of Blackwater. And then once again they’re racing across the plains as the last light of the sun filters through the smoke, turning the sky the same colour as the blood drying on his hands.

* * *

It’s not the first shoot-out Arthur’s ever been in, and, since their hopes of settling down in California or someplace else out west are most certainly dashed once again, it probably won’t be the last. But it sure is the worst.

As they’d got closer, the sound of gunfire could be heard over the horses’ hoofbeats. The northern end of town had been deserted, except for the occasional body – thankfully, none of them belonging to someone they knew. But after they’d dismounted and hurried through the back alleys to the southern end of town, the gunfire and shouting had grown louder. They’d rounded one of the buildings and found themselves behind a whole _heap_ of lawmen, who were far too preoccupied with trying to slaughter the rest of the gang to notice their arrival. And Arthur didn’t even have to think; he just started shooting.

He throws himself behind a half-constructed wall as bullets start to fly his way, looks out, takes a shot, moves. Slips into the familiar motions, easily and automatically as lighting a cigarette or giving Bo a scratch between the ears. Duck, look, aim, shoot, shoot, duck, move, aim, shoot, duck, reload, look, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot. Trying to disarm and disengage on the rare occasions he can. Aiming to kill when he can’t. Knocking the pistol out of the hands of a deputy gunning for Bill. Taking the fingers off a Pinkerton agent – and what the hell are goddamn _Pinkertons_ doing here? – who’s pointing a rifle at Charles as he helps Davey get to cover, the latter pressing his hands to a hole in his gut. Shooting a man between the eyes when he aims a sawn-off at Hosea, who, Arthur realises with some alarm, hasn’t managed to replace his neckerchief, face bare for all and any witnesses to see and remember and describe. Covering Dutch, who’s also lost his bandana at some point, face twisted in a feral snarl and covered in blood that doesn’t seem to be his own.

If they get out of here alive, Arthur will probably spend some time in the solitude of his journal on some future quiet night, wondering and despairing at how _easy_ it comes to him, how ingrained the habit is, like instinct. But right now, he doesn’t question any of it, just does what he has to: shoot. Duck. Reload. Shoot. Kill. Protect. Survive.

After what feels like an age, there seems to be a lull; Blackwater has run out of lawmen, or bullets, or both. So the Van der Linde gang, or what’s left of it, run out of Blackwater.

* * *

They catch up to the wagons – a line of bobbing lanterns in the darkness – on the northern banks of the Upper Montana, just past the old abandoned fort. Karen and Uncle, perched in the back of the last wagon, greet them with the business ends of shotguns, but cry out for the rest to stop when they recognise them. Arthur’s heart sinks even further as, watching the rest of the gang pile out of the wagons and run down to meet them, he realises two faces are missing.

“Swanson! Get over here!” Dutch bellows, “Davey’s been shot! Miss Grimshaw, Miss Jackson, Mr’s Marston and Smith need help as well!”

“John! Oh, what’ve you done now?!” Abigail cries out, rushing over. Dutch looks around as she leads John over to a wagon, calling out over her scolding,

“Hey, did Mac and Sean catch up with you folks?” 

“They’re not with you?” Mary-Beth asks anxiously. 

“When we finally got the chance to get out of there, we couldn’t see them,” Hosea replies, the lines in his face looking starker than ever.

“No sign of ‘em here. And we been watching the town with the bino’s, ‘fore the sun went down – didn’t see no riders leaving besides you fellas,” Uncle confirms, uncharacteristically sober. 

“Shit...” Arthur mutters. For as long as he can remember, the fall back plan has always been the same: if something goes wrong on a job, get out of there, lose the law, get back to camp. Of course, that plan’s got some major flaws when they’re practically camped in the lawmen’s _laps._ How many times had he argued that they’d set up too close to town? Hell, they could hear the shouts from the pier in camp when the wind blew from the south. And he _knew_ this job didn’t feel right, Hosea too. He should’ve been firmer, should’ve insisted...

“Well, we gonna go get ‘em?” Karen demands, hefting her shotgun. All eyes turn to Dutch, but he’s staring back down the road towards Blackwater.

“I... Lemme think,” he says distractedly. Uncertain glances are cast around, until Javier speaks up.

“How’s Jenny doing?” he asks as Swanson and Bill help Davey down from his horse.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Swanson replies, also oddly sober. “She’s in the next wagon, with my medical supplies – Mr. Williamson, if you’ll assist me please...” They have to practically drag Davey over, and when Arthur peers around, he can see Jenny laid out on one side of the medical wagon. There’s a lantern hung from the wagon cover, and he can see she ain’t moving, even as Swanson and Bill get Davey up in beside her.

“What’re we gonna do, Dutch?” Hosea asks, also watching grimly. “I don’t want to leave Mac and Sean, but we can’t stick around here. And I don’t fancy risking splitting us up. They’ll be huntin’ us, from here to Armadillo! Hell, sheriff in Strawberry’s probably already been wired a warning message too.”

“You’re... you’re right,” Dutch nods slowly, turning back to face them. “We can’t risk it. Okay, everybody, listen up a moment!” he calls. “It’s been... well, it’s been a hell of a day! Things ain’t exactly gone to plan, but, that’s just how it goes sometimes.” Arthur sees a few of the others frown, and he sort of understands why. There’s ‘not going to plan’, and there’s multiple members of the gang being shot, or going missing. But Dutch’ll have another plan. He may sometimes get grand ideas that he sticks to for better or worse, and they don’t always turn out very well, but he’s always seen them right in the end. There ain’t no reason, Arthur tells himself, for that to change now.

“Now – the ferry job was a success! We got the money – _lots_ of money! We just can’t get to it right now. But it’s hidden away in a safe spot, and in a while, once Jenny and Davey are better, we’ll come back and get it. And then, we’ll disappear! Might be a week from now, might be a month – but we _will_ be back. And then, we will head out west – all the way out, where Uncle Sam and his cronies can’t reach us – and we _will_ live the life we _deserve._ A life of _freedom._ All we gotta do, is keep one step ahead. Survive. Stay strong. And then I- _we_ will take back what’s _ours.”_

The speech doesn’t quite get the cheers he was probably hoping for, but it does put hopeful smiles back on most people’s faces. If there’s one thing Dutch is good at, Arthur thinks, it’s keeping dreams alive. 

Dreams that immediately come crashing down when Charles, seated on the back of the last wagon while Tilly bandages his burnt hand, peers past the riders, and shouts,

“Look!” 

Arthur turns in the saddle, and feels like he’s been shot. 

Lights. _Dozens_ of lights, swarming across the plains from Blackwater, _fast._

“Everyone move, now! Get these wagons rolling! Get Jenny and Davey and the women up front! Riders who can still shoot, at the back! Move, move, now!” Dutch roars. Folks are already scrambling back along the wagon train, as those still mounted draw their guns. Arthur startles a little when Charles appears back in Taima’s saddle beside him, burnt hand be damned. Glances over, feeling like time is slowing down, at Abigail’s protests as John waves her off, half-wrapped bandage trailing from his arm as he determinedly pulls himself back up onto the Tennessee Walker he’d ridden out of Blackwater. Looks, feeling like some distant observer, at the panic and rage sparking in Dutch’s eyes, at the sneer on Micah’s face as he watches Karen and Susan hurry the other girls to the front wagon. Meets Hosea’s gaze, and is distantly terrified of the resignation he sees there.

But he’s right, of course. It doesn’t matter how much of a head start they have. The wagons – wagons full of Arthur’s _family_ – will never be able to outrun mounted riders.

Arthur looks ahead, squinting against the wagon lanterns. He’s not explored much this side of the river, but he knows it’s Mt. Shann looming in the distance, with Strawberry in between. If the law there _have_ been alerted, they could be heading down the road to meet them right now. He looks over his shoulder. Their pursuers seem to be heading to the Upper Montana. They’ll come up this same road, and the gang’ll be caught in the middle, in a swarm of lawmen’s lanterns and gunfire.

He blinks. 

The lanterns.

“WAIT!”

Arthur’s well aware he’s a big, scarred, scary-looking fella – it has its perks and pitfalls. On the one hand, it makes robberies a hell of a lot easier – folks have been pretty damn quick to do as he tells them ever since he cleared six feet. On the other, he can scare people – even the gang – just by approaching them too fast. So, as a rule, he doesn’t really yell all that much, not around the camp.

So now, near everyone whips around in sheer surprise.

“The hell for?!” John snarls, because of course he does. He’s probably about the only one immune to being shouted at by Arthur, used to it as he is.

Arthur looks at Dutch and Hosea.

“We ain’t gonna be able to outrun them.”

A few people gasp, others hiss, someone whimpers. 

“Not sitting around here, gabbing like old maids we ain’t!” Micah jeers.

“We can’t outrun them, but we can _outthink_ them,” Arthur ignores him, dismounting, pulling his map out of his satchel as he hurries over to Dutch. “I been exploring ‘round these parts. Just up ahead,” he nods further up the road, “there should be a path that’ll lead to a river crossing.”

“You wanna go back to the plains?!” Bill protests.

“Back into _Tall Trees,”_ Arthur replies, turning to Dutch, thrusting the map into his hands, pointing. “If you head northwest, eventually the road’ll fork. You go right, it’ll take you to Owanjila Dam. But you go left, there’s a path, up into the mountains. You should be able to head north, then drop down the west side into New Austin.” 

“Why do you keep saying ‘you’ and not ‘we’?” Hosea snaps. Arthur nearly winces. Hosea’s always been too quick for him. 

“It’s dark,” he answers hurriedly instead, gesturing to the overcast sky. “Snuff out the lanterns, and they won’t be able to see the wagons until they’re almost in ‘em. But they’ll be _looking_ for lights. And, and they’re gonna know that _we’re_ gonna know they’re after us, right?” Dutch is frowning at him, but Arthur meets his gaze, praying to any god that’ll listen that _Dutch_ will listen, just this once. “So, it’d make sense if we had outriders, lookouts who could warn the rest of the gang if the law was coming-”

“Arthur _no.”_

“SO,” Arthur continues over Hosea’s protests, “I’ll keep _my_ lantern, draw them off. Keep ‘em heading north on this road. By the time they realise I ain’t leading them to you, it’ll be too late, you’ll be long gone.” 

He’s got none of Dutch’s flair or Hosea’s showmanship; he can’t sell an idea like it’s the most obvious solution in the world, not like they can. But he holds Dutch’s gaze. _Please,_ he wills silently, _please listen._

Dutch looks at him calculatingly for a long moment – then slowly nods.

“That... that could work,” he says, looking down at the map.

_“Dutch!”_

“If anyone has any better ideas, I’m all ears,” Dutch says loudly, rounding on Hosea, “but I don’t think we got much of a choice!”

“That’s suicide, and you damn well know it!” John snaps, having the gall to glare at Arthur even as Abigail fusses with the bandage on his arm.

“Me n’ Bo ain’t ever met a lawman we couldn’t outrun-”

“What about thirty lawmen at once?” Charles asks. Arthur turns to him in surprise; Charles has been with them near half a year, but he don’t often speak up. “You shouldn’t be alone,” Charles continues, “I’ll stay back with you.”

“Me too!” Lenny pipes up. “We got a better chance if there’s-”

“No,” Arthur says firmly. Because he’s turned back to look at their pursuers; they’ve reached the river, he can see the lights dipping down into the ravine. “If there’s more than one of us, they’ll know something’s up. You boys need to stay with the wagons, ‘case of any trouble in Tall Trees. I’ll be fine.”

He ain’t got Dutch and Hosea’s acting skills either, but he hopes the bravado is believable enough. From everyone’s expressions – from grim to apprehensive to admiration – he’s not entirely sure he’s succeeded. In fact, the only one smiling is Dutch.

“Hah! We’ll make a conman outta you yet, my boy! I almost wanna stick around just so I can see the looks on their faces when they realise they’ve been led on a wild goose chase!” he crows, before turning to the others. “You all heard the man! Snuff out those lanterns! Arthur, when you’ve shaken them off, meet us north, in the mountains.”

Arthur isn’t sure if Dutch genuinely expects to ever see him again, or if he’s just keeping up appearances for the others’ sake, so he just nods, heading for Boadicea and swinging himself back into the saddle. Dutch shakes his head, something like a fond smile on his face.

“Oh, just look at the two of you! Tireless! Fearless! _Peerless!”_

Was a time when such high praise from Dutch would set something in Arthur’s chest glowing for days. But now, looking around – at the blood up to Swanson’s elbows, at John’s grimace as Abigail ties off the makeshift bandage, at the two horribly still figures lying in the back of the second wagon, at all the frightened faces watching him – he just feels oddly hollow.

After a bit more prompting from Dutch, everyone hurries off back into the wagons, flanked by those on horseback. Arthur watches them rattle off down the road, lanterns going out one by one.

And then the rumbling fades into the distance, and they’re alone.

Boadicea snorts, shifting uneasily beneath him. Too good at picking up on his mood, she is. He leans forward to slip her a sugar cube, rubbing her neck to calm the both of them. Checks his lantern – it sloshes with a decent amount of oil when he gives it a shake, but he’ll hold off lighting it until he needs to. Wonders if Swanson was able to do what he could for Jenny and Davey before he had to put his out. Tugs his jacket tighter as the overcast sky finally makes good on its promise, a light drizzle starting up.

And waits.

It takes forever and no time at all for the glow of lights to appear over the rise.

He checks his gun one more time, then lights his lantern, attaches it to the skirt of his saddle. Nudges Bo into a walk, back down the road towards Blackwater. 

“Get ready to run, girl,” he murmurs. She whickers in response, tossing her head. But he takes some slow breaths and waits. Has to be _sure_ they see him.

A few heartbeats later, the first of the riders appear over the crest of the hill. His profile outlined by his lantern, he makes a show of startling, yanking Bo’s reins and wheeling her around, pushing her into a fast canter. Behind him he hears shouts, followed by lawman’s whistles. When the first bullet smacks into a tree next to them, he leans down over Bo’s neck.

“Go, girl, go!”

It’s all the encouragement she needs. He’s never been able to figure out what breed she is, wild-caught as she was, but he swears she’s got some Turkoman in her, or maybe thoroughbred. Because she can run like the damn wind. She bolts forward, the dark landscape blurring around them, and the chase is on.

Every minute they can keep the lawmen on their tail, is another minute the rest of the gang have to get further away, to vanish into the wilderness, for this rain to wash away the cart tracks, for his family to have a chance at safety. So he carries on leading them northward – bypasses the road to his right that he’s pretty sure would lead up to Strawberry (luckily empty of any backup lawmen, for now). Dares a glance to his left when he passes the trail that leads down to the Upper Montana – only gets a split-second view, but he can’t see any sign of recent traffic, so hopefully the lawmen won’t either. Even has to rein Bo in a bit, when the gunshots start to sound too far behind – he has the advantage, he supposes, of being on a horse that’s been able to rest for a little bit, while the lawmen’s horses have been running all the way from Blackwater. That, and he’s got the best horse in the whole damn world.

“Real good girl, real good, come on!”

She rumbles, ears flicking back towards him, not even breaking her stride. In the dark and the rain, his lantern throwing wild shadows around them, it’s damn hard to see – but after what feels like an age, the road ahead forks. He steers Bo to the left, still unsure how close he is to Strawberry and not wanting to find out. And then a bullet whizzes by his head. Cursing, he turns to look – some of the bastards have cut the corner, braving the unknown obstacles of the forest floor to cut him off. He urges Bo to go faster, draws his revolver, starts shooting back. He drops a few riders, misses a couple of shots, but it’s enough to scare some of their horses into swerving and slowing. But still more come.

“Shit,” he hisses, wishing he’d grabbed a secondary revolver – he daren’t try to reload at the speed they’re going, or slow down. There’s a cliff face to his right now, throwing up his and Bo’s shadows in stark relief in the light of the lantern. 

Well. He figures he doesn’t need it for the law to notice him anymore. 

He holsters his gun, reaches back, snatches the lantern – which is still making hearty sloshing sounds – swings his arm back across and _flings_ it as hard as he can. He hears it smash – and then there’s a _whoompf_ and a rush of heat and light behind him. Horses scream and riders yell, and glancing back over his shoulder, he sees them all fall back, the horses shying away from the flames, dumping their riders on the ground.

“Hah! We might just make it out of this yet, girl!” he laughs giddily. 

But of course, he can never count on any streak of good luck to last for long.

The bullet passes so close he feels the heat of it on his neck. Bo squeals as it smashes into the rock face beside them. Whipping his head around, he sees that one lawman has made it through the forest and the flames – and the bastard has a rifle. 

“Go go go!” he urges, hunkering down over Bo’s neck as much as he can – they turn a bend in the road just in time, but the shot is still close enough to hear it whizzing by. Arthur lifts one hand to pat his jacket and pockets, wishing he had something, _anything_ to use as a projectile to throw. He looks back in time to see the man round the corner and level his rifle again. Has the time to notice that in fact, he looks more like a bounty hunter than a lawman, before he’s ducking another bullet. They turn another bend, and suddenly a vast expanse of nothingness opens up to the left. For a moment, he thinks perhaps he _has_ been shot – perhaps his brain is just now catching up to the fact, and that the darkness is going to take over the rest of his vision, and that’ll be it. But no; the darkness stays, and after another moment he realises it’s water he’s looking at. Lake Owanjila, it has to be. And the path ahead of him is straight, before sweeping in a gentle curve down to the lake.

The bounty hunter behind him will have multiple clear shots, no matter how fast they run. 

A shame, he thinks distantly, eyes sweeping across the lake as he turns back to look over his shoulder, for what may be the last time. He’d really wanted to see the lake in the daytime – apparently it was a gorgeous area, with some good hunting and fishing to be had. Seems he will only ever see it like this; dark, dreary and foreboding. Looking back, he sees the bounty hunter round the corner, raise his rifle, take another shot. Again it’s a near miss.

“Come on girl, come on!” he shouts above the rain and Bo’s determined huffs. He turns to look over his shoulder again, sees the bounty hunter raise his rifle, pointing, it feels, directly at him. He buries one hand into Bo’s silvery mane – one last gesture of comfort, maybe, looks back again-

Just in time to see his pursuer get taken out in truly _spectacular_ fashion by a low-hanging tree branch. The man flies a good eight feet backwards, hits the ground, and stays there. Arthur whoops, not caring if he sounds manic, and turns back to the road.

But he should have known better than to count on the good luck continuing.

Again, time seems to slow as he takes in what lies before him. The road ahead seems to carry on forever, relatively straight, and with little cover; the lake, dark and fathomless on one side, and sheer cliffs on the other. The riders who didn’t cut the corner are still pretty far behind, but he’s losing the advantage of a head start - there's enough of them still to be able to switch out as the front runners tire, to hunt the two of them down like a pack of wolves. Relentless and merciless. He knows Boadicea would run herself into the ground if he asked her to, but he’s not sure even she will be able to maintain their current breakneck pace. And that’s all it would take – a loose rock, a gopher hole, a slippery patch of mud, some other obstacle hidden in the dark, for Bo to lose her footing and break her leg, to send Arthur flying and snap his neck.

But he daren’t try to turn around, or head into the forest. And it’s not like he was really expecting to live through the night anyway. He just wishes he wasn’t taking his horse down with him too.

He hunkers down low over Bo’s neck again, murmuring in encouragement.

“Come on, girl! One last ride-”

And then something _explodes_ out of the bushes ahead of them.

Bo skids to a halt, whinnying in alarm, and Arthur damn near gets thrown straight over her head. But he manages to keep his seat, and whips around just in time to see a huge buck, pale coat near _glowing_ in the dark, bound down a path to his left that he hadn’t even noticed. It follows the lakeshore, but ends – he squints into the darkness.

_Of course._

The dam. 

It’s a split-second decision, tossing a look behind him but not seeing any lantern lights yet, before he’s urging Bo back to a full gallop.

“We ain’t done yet girl, come on, yah!”

Ever reliable, Bo surges forwards underneath him, and they follow the startled buck all the way across the dam. The buck flees into the trees as soon as it’s on the other side, and Arthur follows, knowing damn well that Bo’s coat, pale and dappled like golden coins in the sun, also stands out in the darkness. He turns to look back towards the dam just in time to see the trail of lanterns reach the road overlooking the lake, head down to the shore – and continue along the main road, on the opposing shoreline. He has to tamp down on the urge to cheer again. 

“Never let me down, girl,” he whispers instead, patting Bo’s neck as the last of the riders disappear up the northern shore road, before nudging her into a canter towards Tall Trees. Towards their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a game that involves as much horse riding as RDR2, I feel there's a distinct lack of 'fortuitous low-hanging tree branch' gags ~~unless you're in cinematic camera mode~~
> 
> Anyway, this here fic is an attempt at wrapping my head around how the Blackwater → Colter trip might have happened/how things might have gone if gameplay had started at Blackwater, not Colter. It's really a oneshot, but it's getting too long so I've split it up into 3 parts - updates should come over the next couple of weekends. In theory. *goes back to pinning red string all over the game map*
> 
> See you in a week, and as always, thank you for reading <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please mind the tags, and my apologies:
> 
> 1) for the delay – I ended up with zero writing time last week oops
> 
> 2) in advance.

He finds them late the next morning, on the lower slopes of the Grizzlies. They’ve managed to tuck themselves away in a grove of spruce trees – if he hadn’t been looking for them, Arthur never would’ve noticed the wagon tracks under a spread of the needle-like leaves. Hazy with fatigue, he absentmindedly hopes that whoever got that job was wearing gloves. 

“Arthur?!”

Hosea appears out of the trees, quickly slinging a repeater over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Arthur calls tiredly, sliding of the saddle. “Lost the law out near Owanjila. But, I been thinkin’, I reckon a lot of ‘em must’ve been bounty hunters, not lawmen-”

“Never mind that, you idiot!” Arthur grunts in surprise as Hosea pulls him into a hug, all wiry strength and furious relief.

“Damn stupid, stubborn bastard...” Hosea seethes into his shoulder. Arthur chuckles, returning the embrace as Hosea carries on berating his ‘goddamn lunatic ass’.

“Dammit Arthur, I ain’t got any hair left to go grey,” he scolds, pulling away for a moment to glare at him. “You keep pulling stunts like that, it’s gonna start falling out!”

“Hmm, I dunno old man – you’re starting to look at bit thin on top already,” Arthur grins. Hosea thumps him on the arm, but then drags him into another hug.

“You’re okay?” he asks softly. 

“M’fine. Just gettin’ too old to ride through the night.” Truth be told, his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and his limbs feel near as heavy as his eyelids, and he weren’t even the one doing all the running. But he’s alive, which is more than either of them expected. Eventually he pulls away, lest he actually fall asleep on Hosea’s shoulder, looking his old man over. And Arthur might feel like shit, but Hosea looks worse, like he’s aged years overnight. It strikes him, suddenly, that Hosea shouldn’t be living like this. Hell, most of them shouldn’t be living like this. There are a few in the gang – including Arthur – who he is sure will eventually meet the end they deserve: with a new hole in them, or at the end of a rope. But there are plenty of them who deserve _more_ than this life. He wonders, all them years ago when he and Dutch took on a scrawny street kid, if Hosea thought he’d still be living out of a tent and constantly on the run over twenty years later.

“How are the others doing? Jenny and Davey?” he asks instead.

If it’s possible, Hosea’s face becomes even more lined.

“Jenny... didn’t make it. And Davey’s in a bad way.”

Arthur closes his eyes for a long moment, the cracks in his heart widening a little more. That poor, sweet girl... 

Boadicea whickers softly, pushing her head into his chest, and he feels Hosea squeeze his shoulder.

“Buried her?” he mumbles into Bo’s forelock.

“Not yet. Folks need to rest. So do you – head on in.”

“What about you? Oughta get some sleep.”

“Hmph, don’t think I could if I tried. My bedroll’s set up though, you can use it. Go on.” Hosea gives him a gentle push, so Arthur nods tiredly, leading Bo into the makeshift camp. Despite the chill in the air, there are no fires going, and they haven’t bothered with setting up tents – three of the wagons form a protective semi-circle, beyond which most of the gang are curled up in bedrolls. The horses are hitched to one side – to the other, Arthur can make out the back of the fourth wagon, holding a familiar shape wrapped in a canvas. He bows his head again, turning away to take Bo over to the rest of the herd, but is stopped when someone croaks his name.

“Arthur?” 

He looks into the middle wagon, and it’s a gruesome sight. Though they’ve paused to stare at him in surprise, Abigail and Swanson are in the middle of changing Davey’s bandages, and even from here, he can smell the rot. Arthur expects his own inevitable end to be grisly – but being gutshot is near the top of his list of ways he doesn’t want to die.

“Yer... yer back,” Davey pants. He’s gone a horrid sallow colour, face covered in a sheen of sweat. “Gave ol’ Sam the slip?”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, leaning against side of the wagon. “How uh, how you holding up?”

“Oh, don’t- agh,” he hisses as Swanson presses a wad of bandages against his wound, “don’t worry ‘bout me, I’ll be right as rain in- in a few days. But, hey, you seen Mac?”

He’d considered it, as he and Bo had fled up the hill from the dam – wondered about dropping back down into Tall Trees, in case he could find any sign of Mac and Sean making it out of the plains. In the end, worry for the larger group had won out – but he regrets it now, looking into Davey’s glassy, desperate eyes.

“’fraid not,” he says, gentle as he can. “But, him n’ Sean don’t know we’ve headed north – there’s still a chance they’ve-”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Davey grunts, hissing again as Abigail shifts him to start wrapping the new bandages. “Daft git. I told... told him to stay close...”

“Hush now, Mr. Callander. You need to save your strength. And I’m glad you’re back in one piece, Mr. Morgan – I’m sure Dutch will want to speak with you.” Swanson may be useless most of the time, but it’s gotta be said – he looks after his patients. Arthur nods at the clear dismissal, giving Davey a gentle pat on the shin before leading Bo over to the rest of the herd. He brushes her down, rubbing her legs with ointment and slipping her treats, murmuring thanks for all her hard work. As expected, she tucks her legs under her and lies down the moment he gets the saddle off, and hell if he isn’t ready to just join her on the ground and sleep against her side. But Swanson had a point. Instead, he drags himself further into the trees, eventually finding Dutch pacing back and forth in a smaller clearing.

“Arthur! You weren’t followed?”

“Naw – lost ‘em out near the dam. You folks run into any trouble?”

“Didn’t see a soul. Which is just as well, since most of our best guns have managed to get hurt! John’s been shot, Davey’s been shot, Charles managed to burn his hand – you know those bastards tried to smoke us out, like goddamn vermin?! We were damn lucky Micah was there – oh, you should’ve seen it! It was like he was _invincible,_ like the bullets couldn’t touch him! You’d think they weren’t even _aiming_ at him-”

“And Mac? And Sean?” Arthur interrupts, trying to ignore the gleam in Dutch’s eyes as he sings the praises of the man who got them into this mess in the first place. Dutch looks surprised for a moment, frowning at him, before shaking his head.

“I’m sure they’re fine. Javier thinks Mac got shot, but he must’ve got out of there, we didn’t see him. Same with Sean, but you know what that boy’s like – he’s probably already wriggled his way out of whatever bind he was in and is off drinking somewhere, wonderin’ where the hell the rest of us have got to! Let’s hope it doesn’t take him three months to find us this time, eh?” Dutch grins at him, and Arthur wonders if exhaustion’s making him miss something here.

“And Davey? And poor Jenny?” he presses, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Again, Dutch looks affronted, just for a second, before sighing, expression turning grim as he nods.

“I... I know. That poor girl. God, I wish there was something I could’ve done...”

_Not taken her on a job like that when she ain’t ever shot at anything livelier than a tin can,_ Arthur thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s too tired to get into an argument. 

“So what’s the plan?” he asks instead. Dutch gestures to where Arthur’s map is spread out over a rock.

“Just as you said. We keep heading north, eventually drop down into New Austin. Sneak back to Blackwater, get the money, go west. The _plan_ ain’t changed, my boy, just...” Again, some kind of irritated expression passes over Dutch’s face, just for a moment, before being smoothed away. “I just- I just need to know you’re behind me, Arthur. You, and everyone else. This is a setback – one hell of a setback – but that’s _all_ it is. But, folks are talkin’, are _doubtin’...”_

_Are dyin’._ “We just lost someone. Folks are... they’re just scared, Dutch.” _And rightly so._ But Dutch seems satisfied with that answer, clasping his shoulder.

“I know they are, son,” he says gently, “scared and hurtin’. They need to know things are gonna be okay, they need _strength_ – I can count on you for that, right?”

“Always, Dutch.”

Dutch’s face breaks into a genuine smile at that, and again, Arthur wonders why it doesn’t make him feel warm inside like it should. Must just be because he’s tired. 

“Thank you, my boy. Now go on, get some rest, you’ve earned it.”

Arthur nods and leaves him to it, trudging back towards the bedrolls. Doesn’t even get halfway there before an outraged voice barks _“Arthur Morgan!”_ and suddenly he’s being forcefully embraced again. Arthur can’t help but chuckle despite getting the breath knocked out of his lungs – Susan’s hugs are as brusque as the rest of her, but he appreciates the gesture all the same. She releases him only to march him over to the cook wagon, scolding him for making them worry along the way.

“Running off like that, _honestly,”_ she huffs. “And I’ll wager you haven’t eaten anything since this time yesterday!” She brandishes a tin of beans and a bread roll at him threateningly; only Susan Grimshaw could wield foodstuffs like weapons. But Arthur promptly realises how _starving_ he is, because of course, she’s right – stopping to eat has been the last thing on his mind these past twenty-four hours. He accepts the items gratefully, tearing into the bread roll while pulling out his knife to get the tin open.

“No fire?” he asks through a mouthful. He’s no stranger to eating cold beans, but though the rain’s stopped, the air is still chilly and damp, and he’s worried about folks like Hosea and Strauss, and little Jack.

“No, we thought – slow down or you’ll choke, you fool – it was best not to, less the smoke gives us away. But we’d better be heading back down these hills soon Mr. Morgan; we aren’t _at all_ prepared for the cold, let me tell you! Why, couldn’t even find a spare hat to put on Davey, poor soul. Not to mention the lack of food! And I suppose you’ve heard about Jenny?”

“Yeah. Poor kid...”

“I _told_ Dutch he should’ve taken Mary-Beth, but-”

_“What?!”_

“Keep your voice down!” she hisses, swatting him upside the head, “folks are trying to sleep!”

“You sayin’ you’d rather it was Mary-Beth lyin’ in the back of that wagon?!” he hisses right back.

“Of course not, you silly boy, I’m saying that Mary-Beth’s a damn fine thief who knows how to disappear in a crowd and go unseen. Whereas young Jenny... Oh, she woulda stuck out like a sore thumb, I just know it. I _told_ Dutch she weren’t ready, but oh no. ‘She’s keen!’ he said. Silly girl was so eager to prove herself...”

Arthur nods, swallowing at a sudden lump in his throat. Susan’s right, he really should chew more. But he remembers, not two days ago, standing with Jenny down on the shore of Flat Iron, giving her another shooting lesson. She’d improved so much in just a few months – hitting the cans more often than missing, even as she babbled excitedly to him about getting to go on her first big job...

Miss Grimshaw sighs as she hands him a water canteen.

“I promised that girl I’d look after her,” she murmurs, gazing over to the sleeping forms of the rest of the gang. 

“So did I,” Arthur mumbles, a wave of grief and fatigue hitting him anew. “Guess the law’s made liars of us all,” he sighs.

“Hmm. Well, they ain’t takin’ none of my girls again, not while I’m breathing.” She unslings the shotgun on her back, but casts him a glance. “And not my boys neither. Go on, to bed with you. Reckon I’ll go keep watch too.”

“Just like old times, huh?” Arthur chuckles tiredly. Miss Grimshaw manages a small smile, giving him a nudge towards the rest of the sleeping group before stalking into the trees. Arthur finishes the water canteen, then shuffles over, shedding his hat, coat and boots before crawling into Hosea’s bedroll. Briefly, he’s worried that the echoes of bullets, of the whistles of lawmen, of the horrible wheezing of Davey asking for his brother, of the remembrance of Jenny’s giggling chatter, are going to keep him from sleep. But the wool covers are worn soft with age and smell like Hosea, of herbs and those ‘botanical’ cigarettes he prefers. Reminds him of back in the early days when he was just a kid and would end up sleeping with Hosea, or Dutch, or both – when the two of them seemed invincible, able to fend off any and all dangers, even the spectres in his dreams.

Arthur’s asleep as soon as he lays his head down.

* * *

He’s woken by a warm weight tumbling across his chest, small hands tapping on his collarbone.

“Mmph, ‘s’matter, Isaac?” he mumbles, still half-stuck in dreams of golden horizons and crosses in the ground.

“Huh? My name’s Jack, Uncle Arthur!”

Arthur blinks his eyes open, squinting up at the wide eyes – brown, not blue and green – staring back at him.

“Ain’t that what I said?”

“No!” Jack giggles.

“Hmph. Guess I’m going senile in my old age.”

“Is that like lum-bay-go?”

“Ugh, I hope not,” Arthur grunts, rubbing a hand across his face. “You okay?”

“Momma told me to come wake you up because we’re leaving.”

“Whuh...?”

He looks around, and realises with a start that the rest of their meagre camp has been packed up around him – those with their own horses are over by the herd, tacking them up, while the others are piling everything back into three of the wagons. Jack clambers off him and he sits up – only to nearly be bowled over again as Mary-Beth suddenly appears at his side, flinging her arms around his shoulders.

“Oh Arthur! We thought you were gonna get-”

“I’m fine, Mary-Beth,” Arthur interrupts, well aware that Jack is still standing next to them. The boy’s brave, braver than any kid his age has a right to be – but then, he’s already seen things no kid his age should be seeing. No need to for him to hear about things that ain’t happened yet. “Hey Jack, how about you go help Mr. Pearson with the packing, make sure he’s doing it right?”

“Okay! Bye Uncle Arthur, bye Auntie Mary-Beth!” Arthur pulls himself out of the bedroll, but waits until the kid’s scampered off before turning back to Mary-Beth.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks lowly. Her smile disappears, replaced with worry.

“Mr. Smith went scouting back down the road and saw smoke not too far off. Said it could just be hunters, but...”

“But we’re better off bein’ safe than sorry.” 

“Yeah – that’s what Dutch said. So we’re gonna carry on heading north, for now. Sorry, we did try to let you sleep as long as we could-”

“Aw, you shoulda given me a kick,” Arthur says, noting with some shame that it’s late afternoon. “Ain’t no reason for me to get to laze about like Uncle-”

“You mean besides the fact you spent the night running around, risking your life to save ours?” He looks up in surprise at her sharp tone.

“It weren’t really all that-”

“Don’t be obtuse, Arthur. We thought... Lord, we thought we weren’t ever gonna see you again! Can’t speak for what was happenin’ in the other wagons, but I cried! Tilly cried! _Pearson_ cried!”

And Arthur’s not entirely sure what to do with that information.

“Really ain’t worth gettin’ that upset over-”

“Oh, _Arthur,”_ she huffs, but gets interrupted before she can lecture him.

“Miss Gaskill, quit gossiping and bring that bedroll!” Susan barks from the front wagon. Mary-Beth rolls her eyes, but then turns back and quickly wraps her arms around him again.

“Really, Arthur, _thank you,”_ she says, giving him a squeeze before taking the bedroll from him and trotting over to the wagon. 

Arthur heads for the horses, shaking his head in bewilderment. Everyone must just be feeling overly-emotional because of the situation with Jenny and Sean and the Callanders. That’ll be it. On that thought, he stops by Swanson’s wagon again – it’s just Abigail in there now, doing her best to wash the blood off Davey’s chest.

“Arthur! I told the boy to wake you up carefully, I hope he didn’t-”

“He was fine,” Arthur offers her a smile, but it disappears quickly as he gets a better look at Davey – he’s an even worse colour than he was in the morning.

“How’s he doin’?” he asks. Abigail purses her lips, shaking her head.

“Fadin’ in and out. And he seems... confused.”

“Well, if Swanson’s got him on the good stuff, that’s normal, ain’t it?”

“He ain’t giving him morphine, seeing as it can make you sick up. And we thought...” she waves vaguely at Davey’s heavily-bandaged stomach.

“Best he use those muscles as little as possible,” Arthur finishes for her. She nods, but before she can reply, Davey stirs.

“...Arthur?” he rasps.

“How you doin’, Davey?”

“Yer back! You lost- lost the law then, ‘ey?”

“...Sure did,” Arthur says slowly.

“Good... good... Hey, you- you seen Mac?”

It’s a small mercy that Davey’s keeping his eyes closed, even it is because of the pain – it means he doesn’t see the grim look Arthur and Abigail share over his head.

* * *

“Still can’t believe we’re leavin’ all that money behind.”

“Oh, _shut up.”_

“I’m just being practical, cowpoke! That haul would’ve had all of us set – even with all these hangers on!”

“These ‘hangers on’ have been part of this gang a damn sight longer than you have, so you watch your goddamn mouth,” Arthur growls. Micah raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Oh, I know, I know – it’s _loyalty_ and seniority that matters in this gang, not skill. Guess I’m just strugglin’ with the logic behind saving a _corpse_ instead of a fortune,” Micah jabs a thumb at the last wagon behind them – the one carrying Jenny. 

“I said, you _watch your god damn mouth-!”_

“Will you two knock it off?” Hosea calls tiredly from the wagon ahead of them.

“Sorry, old timer – didn’t mean to disturb your beauty sleep,” Micah replies with barely-concealed sarcasm.

“I didn’t see _you_ keepin’ watch,” Arthur shoots back – albeit in a lower voice.

“Well, Dutch needs his best guns rested up, don’t he?”

“Oh yes, I heard all about that,” Arthur scoffs. “Apparently it was like the bullets weren’t even comin’ your way, despite the fact you must’ve been the easiest to spot,” Arthur gestures at Micah’s shirt – even in the moonlight, it’s still an _offensively_ bright shade of yellow – that he still hasn’t changed out of, despite the blood splatters. 

“The bullets don’t come my way, because I don’t give ‘em a chance to,” Micah snaps. 

“Pfft, sure. But seriously, ‘the hell is that get-up for? Folks could spot you a mile away.”

“Well... that’s just the point, ain’t it?” Micah says after a beat, glaring at him.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re showin’ your lack of _creative thinking,_ cowpoke – despite your ‘seniority’.”

“And you ain’t givin’ me a straight answer.”

_“Think,_ cowpoke. What’s the first thing a witness is gonna remember about me? ‘Well sheriff, I didn’t get a look at his face, but he was wearin’ a bright yellow shirt!’ We ended up getting separated in Blackwater? I coulda just swapped my shirt, and moseyed on out of there.”

Coming out of Dutch or Hosea’s mouth – hell, anyone else’s mouth – it would make sense, Arthur supposes. But the way Micah says it, almost like it’s an _excuse..._ But he shakes his head. He’s got more important things to worry about than Micah’s wardrobe choices – and he’s reached his daily limit of listening to the man’s sneering and whining anyway.

“Whatever you say,” he grunts, nudging Boadicea out of the wagons’ path and falling in again at the back of the train, alongside Lenny and Uncle.

“-‘course not! We’re doin’ right by her! Well, right as we can...” Uncle is saying.

“I hope so,” Lenny murmurs.

“Right by who?” Arthur asks.

“Jenny,” Lenny replies unhappily, nodding ahead at the wagon box. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that...” They’ve had to pack some other things to one side of her, as respectfully as they could – boxes and the like which couldn’t fall on her. 

“Do you think... Dutch made that big speech about ‘no man or woman left behind’, but... well, we _have_ left Sean and Mac behind, and I know _some,”_ Lenny jerks his chin up ahead towards the rest of the wagons – and gang, “think we shouldn’t be carrying... carrying around... dead weight...”

Lenny’s so smart, and so eager to go on jobs, and so sharp with his quips and comebacks, that sometimes Arthur forgets just how young he is. But there’s no mistaking the hitch in his voice.

“Hey now,” he says gently, steering Bo closer to Maggie so he can squeeze Lenny’s shoulder. “What Dutch said was true. Mac n’ Sean – well, we’ve had to leave ‘em for now, sure, but soon as we’ve got settled somewhere safe, we’ll try to figure out where they are, head back for ‘em if need be. And as for everyone else,” he glances ahead at the wagon, “we’re family. We look after each other, until the end and afterwards. Jenny deserves a nice spot to rest, and a proper burial – and we ain’t had time back there, so we’re gonna do right by her, like Uncle said, until we find that nice spot – somewhere pretty, with a nice view. And if anyone’s got a problem with that, you can send ‘em my way.”

The smile Lenny gives him is shaky at best, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

“Right,” he nods. “I... yeah, sure. Thanks, Arthur. I’m uh, gonna go see if any of my warm clothes got packed. Gettin’ cold up here.”

“Brr-rr, the kid’s right, it _is_ gettin’ cold,” Uncle complains as Lenny rides ahead. “How far up in these mountains is Dutch plannin’ on takin’ us?!”

“Not too much further,” Arthur answers vaguely. Truth is, he has no idea, and from the raised eyebrow, Uncle seems to know it.

“Well, we can’t just keep ridin’ in the dark like this!” 

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs, “just askin’ to break a wheel axle...”

“Oh, I was thinkin’ more about _predators.”_

“Come on, a bear or cougar’s not gonna try and take on this lot.”

_“No._ But you can get big wolf packs, up in the mountains! Why, when I was your age, I was up in the Rockies-”

“You told me that when you was my age, you was in Africa! Or was it the Bahamas?”

“I’m a well-travelled man, Arthur!” Uncle huffs. “Anyway, as I was sayin’, I was up in the Rockies, got talkin’ to the locals, and they told me about _super packs_ roamin’ the peaks – you think outrunnin’ the law was exciting? Try outrunnin’ thirty, forty, _fifty_ wolves!” 

Arthur just snorts, waving a hand dismissively.

“Ah, as long as we stick together, we’ll be fine. Besides,” he adds with his nastiest leer, “I don’t gotta be able to outrun the wolves. I just gotta be able to outrun _you.”_

Thankfully, he’s saved from any further blustering by the wagons pulling to a stop up ahead.

“We changing out the horses again?” he calls up.

“No – we’re gonna stop here for the night,” Dutch shouts back, “this seems like as good a spot as any!”

Arthur and Uncle peer at the area ahead of them in the faint light of the moon. This ‘spot’ being a relatively flat patch of bare, rocky ground; as compared to the sloping bare, rocky ground of the mountain pass they’ve been trundling through for the better part of the evening and night.

“...Sure. And uh, maybe we better post some extra guards. Keep an eye out for wolves, and the like.”

Uncle smirks.

“Me ‘n Uncle volunteer for the first watch!” Arthur adds cheerily.

Uncle splutters.

The complaining doesn’t stop, as they pull over the wagons and get set up – still with no fires, but with warmer clothes, extra blankets, and bottles of whiskey being passed around. But Arthur’s well used to tuning it all out.

“I’m an old man, Arthur!”

“I’ve lived a hard life, I need my rest!”

“This is elder abuse!”

“I got a serious medical condition!”

“And I’m gonna give you a couple more if you keep whingin’,” Arthur replies, but there’s no bite in it as he grins around his cigarette. If Uncle’s whining is the worst thing he has to deal with tonight, he’ll consider himself lucky.

* * *

They can never count on the good luck lasting for long. But perhaps it truly left them for good, back in Blackwater.

_“Pinkertons!”_

They’ve barely got the wagons moving again when Javier comes racing back up the pass, Boaz lathered in sweat despite the chill of the early morning air. 

_“What?!”_ Dutch barks from where he’s driving the front wagon with Hosea, pulling it to a halt.

“Pinkertons, and bounty hunters – lots of them – coming up the pass,” Javier gasps as he rides up to them. There’s a terrible moment of stillness as they all look at each other. They can’t sneak away under the cover of darkness this time – can’t do anything but run. Arthur sees Dutch open and close his mouth, clutching the reins in a death grip. Hosea catches his eye, starts to shake his head, but Arthur beats him to it.

“We can hold ‘em off. Go! Gunslingers, on me!”

Dutch looks surprised, but Arthur doesn’t give him a chance to argue, slapping the closest draft horse on the rump. They start off again, quickly gaining speed as the riders peel away. Arthur leads them onwards, not daring to throw a look back.

“What’s the plan, Morgan?” Bill calls as they thunder back down the pass.

“Shoot lawmen, and try not to get shot yourself!” Arthur yells back, checking his revolvers are loaded.

“Hah! Nice and simple!” Bill whoops with a nasty grin.

_“This is the Pinkerton Detective Agency!”_

Arthur throws out an arm, and they all haul on the reigns, coming to a stop. The voice – tinny and distorted as it bounces off the canyon walls – carries on.

_“Dutch Van der Linde! Hosea Matthews! You and your associates are wanted for theft, destruction of property, assault, and murder! We know you’re here - come out with your hands up!”_

“Can you _believe_ these fools?” John growls, “what, are they going up every road north of Blackwater with a megaphone and hoping they get lucky?!” 

“Only so many ways we could go with the wagons – they must’ve figured that out,” Lenny replies, mouth a thin line. 

_“Come out with your hands up!”_

Arthur glances around – there’s little in the way of cover besides the odd boulder, but the canyon is narrow and steep, bending sharply just ahead of them.

“Keep your voices down!” he hisses, “it’s too narrow here for ‘em to use their numbers advantage on us, so this is where we’ll surprise ‘em. Let a few of them get around the corner first. Try not to stay still too long, shoot as many as you can. If they start to get too close, we fall back to the next bend, repeat the process.” 

“Didn’t take you for a tactician, amigo,” Javier whispers back with a wicked grin of his own.

“I ain’t – I’m just very used to tryin’ not to get killed,” Arthur mutters grimly. “Everyone ready? Charles, you good with your hand like that?”

“Only need one hand to shoot,” Charles murmurs back. “Just wish I could use my bow.”

“And John? Can you even fire a rifle with your arm?”

“Mind your damn self, Arthur,” John growls, “I can shoot just fine.” 

Arthur shrugs. If he’s well enough to snark, he’s well enough to shoot.

_“This is the Pinkerton Detective Agency!”_

It sounds slightly less like an echo now – and soon they can hear the rumble of approaching hooves.

“That a wagon?” Charles asks under his breath.

“Sounds like it... for prisoners?”

“Or corpses,” Micah says airily, smirking at their glares. “What? They’re bounty hunters, and Pinkertons, which is just Government-sponsored bounty hunters. They don’t get paid ‘less they deliver the goods.”

“Well, we’re sending ‘em back empty handed,” Arthur growls, knocking back both hammers. “Wait for it...”

_“...You and your associates are wanted for theft, destruction of property, assault, and murder! We know you’re here-”_

The first group rounds the corner, all bowler hats and smart suits.

_“NOW!”_

The lot of them are dropped by the first salvo. The ensuing commotion runs just as Arthur hoped it would – the horses of the front riders panic, try to turn back, only to collide with the next lot in the narrow confines of the canyon and bringing the whole damned procession to a halt, leaving the gang free to dispatch their pursuers one by one. Arthur takes no pleasure in killing folk – but he’ll admit to some small satisfaction as he takes out the annoying bastard with the megaphone. Eventually some of the lawmen get their act together and start shooting back, but having the high ground makes it easier to spot them and take them out.

“All this fuss over one bitch!”

“What does that mean?” Arthur yells over the gunfire, steering Bo with his legs as he picks off Pinkertons and bounty hunters alike. What a goddamn waste. 

“Dutch shot some girl back in Blackwater, and then everyone went crazy!”

And Arthur’s worldview tilts on its axis. Dutch shot an innocent woman? No, he wouldn’t. He’d _always_ told them to leave ordinary folk out of their heists – that they were outlaws, fighters for freedom and justice, not bandits. They only killed folks that needed killing; better to lose a million dollars than to kill an innocent bystander, Dutch said – and they _had_ lost countless takes over the years, because said innocent bystanders never seem to know what’s good for ‘em, standing and gawping rather than running for cover. And Arthur wouldn’t have it any other way. Surely there was some mistake? 

As their attackers fall back – probably only to regroup, he muses as he reloads his revolvers – he wheels Bo around to face Micah, intent on demanding to know what happened, what the hell he’s talking about. And that’s why the bullet goes through her neck instead of his chest.

Bo lets out a strangled scream, rearing and sending Arthur tumbling out of the saddle, before crashing down to the ground. And Arthur barely hears John’s angry shout and the answering crack of his rifle. Barely hears Charles and Lenny yelling at him, asking if he’s okay. Barely feels the ache in his side from where he hit the ground, as he crawls to Bo. Is only aware of her wheezing breaths, of the blood leaking out of her mouth and nose, of the way her eyes roll, searching for him.

“Bo...” he croaks. She whickers softly as he cradles her head in his arms. Presses her muzzle into his chest, like she always does when he’s upset.

“I’m so sorry, girl...” he whispers.

One huffed breath. Two. Three.

And then she’s gone.

It feels like time’s slowed down, as he strokes her cheek one last time then carefully lays her down and stands. Turns to face the direction Bo’s killer fired from. Looks like John already shot the bastard, there’s a crumpled body with half the head missing lying in the mud. But sure enough, the lawmen _had_ only retreated briefly, and now they surge up the road towards them again, yelling and firing. But he barely hears their shots, barely hears Bill shouting at him to get to cover you idiot, over the blood rushing in his ears. There’s a inhuman roar – and he only later realises it comes from himself – and time almost comes to a standstill as his revolvers come up in front of him, hammers snapping back again and again, as twelve lawmen and idiot wannabe heroes drop from their saddles, faces blown open. The remaining handful gape at him in horror before turning their mounts and spurring them away.

The whining in his ears abruptly fades and time speeds up again, and he lets his arms fall to his sides, breathing hard. Everything’s quiet. Finally he turns back to the others, who are all staring at him – the older members of the gang with grim expressions, the newer ones with something close to awe.

“...Well colour me impressed, Morgan,” Micah finally drawls, breaking the silence. “If I’d known it would turn you into such a good shot, I’d’ve killed your nag back in Blackwater.”

It’s a good things his guns are empty, otherwise he would’ve shot Micah then and there. As is, various enraged voices yell at Micah to shut the hell up, as Charles and Taima appear beside him, Charles using his good hand to urge Arthur up behind him ( _“They’ll be back with reinforcements, come on Arthur, we have to go, we_ have _to go_ now.”). Arthur goes, mechanically, ends up perched on Taima’s rump. Throws one last look back at his Boadicea – his brave, smart, sweet golden girl, his companion of over a decade. Then shuts his eyes against the stinging sensation as Charles urges Taima into a gallop behind the others.

“I’m sorry,” Charles murmurs, just loud enough over the thunder of hooves, “she was a good horse.”

“The best,” Arthur whispers back.

* * *

Arthur wakes, and immediately regrets it. He aches all over, but his left side especially feels like someone’s gone at him with a meat tenderiser, and his eyes feel sore and swollen. For one brief, blissful moment, he can’t remember why. Then it comes back to him, and he shuts his eyes again, taking in a careful, measured breath. Opens his eyes. Releases it.

Even in the gloom, he can see it mist in front of his face. 

He frowns, starts easing himself out of the gap between the boxes he’s wedged himself into – he barely remembers mumbling about ‘saying his goodbyes to Jenny’ as an excuse to ride alone in the wagon. While he truly did want to say some words, to apologise to her – he also wanted to avoid all the pitying looks from the others.

With a grunt, he hauls himself to his feet – pushing aside the blanket someone’s tucked around him – and shuffles to the back of the wagon, pulls back the cover. And stares.

The whole world is white, except for the dark clouds looming overhead.

“...Strauss? ‘The hell are we?” he calls over his shoulder.

“You been out for a while, Mr. Morgan – I swapped out with Strauss hours ago!” Pearson calls back. “You’d think a man from Austria would be able to stand a little cold!”

There’s probably some joke in there about animals that use blubber to keep themselves warm, but his heart’s not in it.

“Right. So, where are we?”

“God knows!”

Arthur sighs.

“Well, Miss Kirk,” he murmurs, “seems we’ve made a real mess of things, this time.”

The wagons are only crawling along, so he gently lays a hand on top of the canvas covering Jenny one last time, before jumping down into the snow.

“Je _sus,”_ he hisses, wind biting through his thin jacket as soon as he’s out of the meagre shelter of the wagon cover. Shuffles alongside to the wagons until he gets to the second, where the ladies are huddled up.

“Miss Grimshaw? Please tell me my winter coat got packed when we left camp!” he calls, teeth already chattering. 

“Yes, yes, here it is, we got it out, and your gloves and a thick vest too – wrap up before you freeze, you fool, where’s that blanket I got out for you?!” Susan somehow manages to bustle about, despite the cramped conditions in the wagon, handing him the clothing. After an unpleasant but quick change, he thanks her, passing up his jacket and vest – the fancier ones he’d been wearing with Hosea when they met with their con targets in Manzanita Post. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Are you all right, Mr. Morgan?” Susan asks quietly as she takes them.

“Where’s Dutch? Still up front?” Arthur replies. Miss Grimshaw purses her lips at him, but nods.

“Why don’t you go see if you can figure out what he’s planning? Lord knows, the rest of us have tried!”

Arthur nods back, trudging up the line to the lead wagon. Meets Swanson’s gaze as he looks into the back – but the Reverend just shakes his head minutely. Sighing, Arthur carries on up to the front.

“Dutch!”

“Arthur! You okay?” Dutch and Hosea are still perched at the front, giving him worried looks. 

_“Dutch shot some girl back in Blackwater...”_

Besides the fact he’s now wearing his big bearskin coat, Dutch doesn’t look any different. Arthur’s not sure why he expected him to. Yet, it still seems... wrong.

“Fine,” he grits back as he steps up to hang off the side of the wagon. “Where are we? What’s the plan?”

“...That’s what we were just discussing,” Dutch answers after a long moment. “We _were_ hoping to take the next west-bound pass, but if the law knows we’re up here, we could meet more of ‘em on the way down, so we’ve carried on...”

“But we have no idea how far the _next_ downslope pass is,” Hosea interjects, in a tone that absolutely suggests the ‘discussion’ was more of an argument. Come to think of it, it’s a tone Arthur’s been hearing a lot from Hosea, lately.

“Well, didja check the map?” Arthur asks wearily. Dutch coughs.

“About that...”

“Some _genius_ left our only map of these parts back at the last campsite,” Hosea grumbles.

Arthur can’t do anything except close his eyes and sigh. He’d worked hard on that map – noting down resources and potential spots for camping and robbing and other points of interest, while out exploring with...

He tunes back into Dutch and Hosea’s bickering to avoid the rest of that train of thought.

“-carry on a bit, then see where we’re at,” Dutch is saying.

“If we _can_ still see,” Hosea gripes. “I don’t like the look of those clouds...”

“Oh, will you have _some_ faith in me?”

“Ain’t nothing to do with _faith,_ Dutch, and everything to do with the fact we ain’t prepared to ride out a blizzard!”

“I am doing the best I _can,_ Hosea! Look, John or Micah should be back soon, hopefully they’ve-”

“John? You sent him out?!”

“He volunteered!” 

“He’s been _shot,_ Dutch!”

“Oh, don’t you start as well,” Dutch huffs. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, son, but these are _hard times._ And in hard times, sometimes you gotta make hard calls! Besides, wasn’t like I could ask you, since you were... indisposed...” His expression gentles a little. “I am truly sorry, my boy. Bo was-”

“So now what?” Arthur interrupts, hoping the roughness in his voice will be attributed to the cold.

“Well... we do the only thing we can do. We keep going, until John or Micah can find us somewhere to wait out the storm.”

“How long they been out?”

“A couple of hours,” Hosea replies, concern clear in his voice. Arthur sighs again, hangs his head a moment – then nods. 

“I’ll go. See if I can’t find one of ‘em, or somewhere to stay.”

“Good man,” Dutch says approvingly. Hosea frowns at him, but relents.

“Who you gonna ride?” he asks gently. Arthur swallows, craning his head back to look at the various horses tethered to the wagons. Riding The Count is out of the question. Silver Dollar is placid and sensible, but has the spindly legs of a racer – not the best for plodding through snow. Likewise for Ennis – and he’s as flighty and temperamental as his rider. Not to mention, riding Sean’s horse would just feel... wrong. His eyes land on the next horse – the spots on her rump easy to distinguish.

“Why ain’t Mr. Smith ridin’?”

“That hand of his is hurt worse than he let on,” Hosea answers. “Susan’s managed to bully him into riding in a wagon, for now.”

He likes Taima – she’s a good-natured, calm horse. Got along well with...

“Guess I’ll go see if I can borrow his horse then,” Arthur mutters, jumping down, peering into the wagons as they go past until he catches sight of Charles. 

“Mr. Smith!” he calls “I’m sorry to ask, but could I borrow Taima for a bit? Need to try and find one of those fools who went out earlier.”

“Of course,” Charles nods. “I’m sorry – I wanted to go look myself, but...” he waves his hand – now more heavily bandaged – with a defeated expression. “She’ll look after you.”

“And I promise I’ll look after her. Thank you, really.” 

Snagging Taima’s reins, he tugs her out of the way. She nickers in confusion, but accepts the sugar lump he slips her, lets him check her saddle strap and bit. 

“Sorry, girl,” he murmurs, “but we gotta find somewhere your man can rest that injury of his.” He mounts up – ignores the feeling of _wrongness_ – and urges Taima up to the lead wagon again.

“John and Micah headed south-east – you should head downslope!” Hosea calls. Arthur nods, pushes Taima into a canter. She puts up little fuss, steadily churning through the snow. He’s always liked appaloosas. Strong, hardy, dependable breed. 

But still nothing on his Boadicea.

He swallows again. 

He’s lost too much of his family, these past few days. If he has to ride over every square inch of these mountains, he will, if it means he can avoid losing any more.

Arthur shoves his grief down deep – luckily it’s a skill he’s been able hone over the years – and rides on as the first snowflakes start to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _By 1899, the age of gunslingers and outlaws was at an end..._
> 
> Welp. As I said last chapter - this was my attempt to come up with a (hopefully) believable series of events between Blackwater and the opening of the game. There are a lot of inconsistencies with the information we get around the Blackwater job and its aftermath, as well as some things that just don’t make any sense. On Rockstar’s part, I’m not sure how much of this is purposefully keeping it vague, versus laziness in checking the consistency of the final dialogue lines we get in-game. My [attempts](https://pipdepop.tumblr.com/post/631565471705104384/so-about-the-blackwater-camp) to wrap my head around how the gang made the Blackwater → Colter trip didn’t shed much light on the matter either, so I just tried to go with what made the most sense ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ But if anyone’s wondering about anything, feel free to ask!
> 
> One chapter left, and it's pure fluff, I promise! (...well, mostly). As always, thank you for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Okay there’s some fluff at least, at the end. Promise. But CW for the first section in particular dealing with grave-digging, funerals etc. (but nothing graphic). 
> 
> (Also, haven’t named individual chapters, but I _was_ listening to ‘The Only Time I’m Home’ by Tom Rosenthal on repeat while writing this chapter, if you feel like setting ~the mood~)

“Here.”

Arthur glances around, trying not to let his confusion show.

“Here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well... all right then.”

He brings the horses to a stop, still peering around. There’s nothing overly special about the spot, as far as he can see, though he guesses the view of the half-frozen stream and the mountain to their left is nice enough. He hops out, sinking through the snow almost to the tops of his boots as he shuffles around to the back of the wagon.

“You don’t gotta help me, I know you already... Just, keep an eye out for wolves, yeah? Can’t have me _and_ John on bed rest.” Lenny does his best to smile, but it sounds like his voice is threatening to hitch again.

“Ah, don’t worry about it kid, I’m glad to help. Well, not glad, but, y’know...” If Hosea’s lungs weren’t struggling so much in this cold, he would’ve asked him to come along too – Arthur can do the manual labour just fine, but the words part, he’s no good at. “Besides,” he says roughly, “a bit of hard work helps to keep warm. Shall we?”

Lenny takes in a shaky breath, but nods. 

“Yeah. Let’s do this.”

So Arthur reaches into the wagon to grab two shovels, and follows Lenny over to a stand of conifers. 

After a while, his arms are screaming from the effort of helping to dig three graves into frozen ground in one day. But he’s glad he came. Lenny had been adamant; insisted that they couldn’t bury Jenny alongside Davey by the old church in Colter – said she’d hated churches. He’d refused to explain, said it wasn’t his place to say why, but wouldn’t budge on the matter. Not even Dutch and Hosea could talk him around. It had nearly devolved into a real argument – and Arthur understands, he does. They’re all tired, cold, and worried, and tempers are running short; enthusiasm for going back out into the snowy wilderness is running even shorter.

But he’d meant what he’d said, only two nights ago, though it feels like an age. So he’d offered to go with Lenny to find a spot that he thought Jenny would like. And apparently, this was it. And now, with only a light sprinkling of snow gently coming down, and the face of the mountain slope opposite them bathed a soft pink in the light of the sunset, he supposes it’s quite pretty. He heaves a sigh, planting his shovel in the ground and clapping a hand on Lenny’s shoulder.

“Ready for the hard part?”

Lenny just nods this time.

By the time they’re done, the snow’s stopped and it’s twilight, turning the world a luminous blue-white. Lenny finishes straightening up the wooden marker that Javier had blunted his best knife to carve, and steps back. 

“Do you, uh, wanna say a few words?” Arthur asks softly.

“...not aloud,” Lenny replies, even softer. Arthur just nods, rests his hand on the marker for a moment, then heads back to the horses – fussing over them and giving them half an oat cake each for patiently standing out in the snow, then gets up into the driver’s seat to wait.

Lenny doesn’t say anything when he eventually clambers in beside him, and if Arthur notices the kid keeps swiping at his eyes, he doesn’t mention it – just eases the cart around and starts them off back towards Colter. But as the glow of the scout fire comes into view, Lenny pipes up.

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Arthur just gives him a small smile, slinging an arm around his shoulders and squeezing.

“Don’t mention it, kid. Now come on – let’s go see what crime against nature Pearson’s got served up.”

* * *

“Y’know, when I was in the Army-”

“If this is the story about the fella who got a tree branch up his ass, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Ah, yeah, poor Lollipop... But no! I was gonna say, when I was in the Army, we would clear _forests_ in a single afternoon!”

“That right?”

“Yessiree. Sarge just had to give the word, and we’d put a whole company of lumberjacks to shame!”

“Oh I’m sure.”

“Watcha say it like that for?” Bill demands, face immediately contorting into a snarl. “You sayin’ I’m lyin?!”

“I’m _sayin’”,_ Arthur says with exaggerated slowness even as he brings his own axe down, “that for all your ‘experience’, you been choppin’ at the same log for the past two minutes!”

Bill’s mouth works soundlessly for a few moments as he alternates between glaring at Arthur and glaring at the offending log, before grumbling and hefting his axe again. Arthur just sighs, knocking his pieces onto the log carrier and grabbing another. 

“So...”

Arthur glances up, biting back another sigh.

“Yeah?”

“You, uh, you think Dutch is gonna have us hit this train?” 

“You know Dutch,” Arthur says tiredly, “once he sets his mind to somethin’, he don’t let it go.”

“Yeah, well, we need the money, right?”

“We _need_ to make sure folks can keep warm tonight,” Arthur says pointedly. Dammit, the reason he came out here in the first place was to _avoid_ thinking about the full-blown row between Dutch and Hosea over the question of the train – a row that only finished when Hosea started coughing so bad he couldn’t speak. Arthur doesn’t have the smarts or the eloquence to stop the arguing, but he _has_ got two working arms, so at least he might be able to do something about the coughing. If he has to shove an entire pine tree into that fireplace, he will.

“Right...”

They go back to chopping in silence. Arthur starts to lose himself in the rhythm of it. There’s a relief in the physical work, even if his arms and shoulders are still aching something fierce, not to mention all the bruising down his side. He doesn’t have the smarts or the eloquence to get them out of their current situation either; staying near Blackwater, and now here in this old mining town, they’re further east than they’ve been in years. Too close to civilisation, too close to _society_ and all its laws and regulations and crowds full of innocent bystanders-

His next downswing chops clean through the log and then some. 

He half considers asking Bill about what happened on the Blackwater ferry, though from what he’s already heard, he doesn’t think Bill saw. The man rarely thinks before he speaks, and he hasn’t brought anything up about Dutch murdering a woman in cold blood. Doesn’t have that same vaguely haunted look Javier has, John too in his more lucid moments, either.

Then again, Bill near worships the ground Dutch walks on – thinks his ‘saviour’ can do no wrong. Just like Arthur himself used to think, once upon a time.

His next swing misses completely as he realises he’s stopped believing that, and can’t tell when it happened.

He loves Dutch. He does. Would follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond. 

But...

He growls as he yanks the axe out of the tree stump he’s using as a chopping block. This is why he doesn’t do the thinking – it gets him nowhere. Best he stick to being the workhorse. Chop firewood. Hunt. Protect. Suriv-

“Hey, Arthur?”

“What?” he tries not to snap. Bill’s the only one who’s bothered to come out here and help him, after all.

“How, uh, how’s that new horse treatin’ ya?”

“Fine,” Arthur replies with a frown. “He’ll do, for now.”

“Right...”

A few more minutes, and they’ve got a small mountain of firewood between them. So, hopefully enough to last them through until tomorrow morning, Arthur thinks ruefully. 

“So, what you, uh, what you gonna do now?”

“...take some of these to Dutch’s cabin?” Arthur replies, raising his eyebrows.

“Right, ‘course, I’ll help ya.” 

Arthur shakes his head to himself, but not like he’s going to complain. They deposit a bunch of the logs with Molly, who insists she can take them from the doorway and stack them herself, if only to have something to do (“Ach, at this rate, reckon I’m going to die of boredom before I die of cold!”), and deliver the rest to the other cabins. But Bill doesn’t head inside himself, instead starting to follow behind Arthur as he heads for the stable. 

“...You need something, Bill?”

“No, I just, uh, thought I’d go over the stables too.”

“...Okay then.”

They reach the stable doors, and Arthur can’t help but notice Bill fidgeting.

“Well, uh, here we are,” he blurts.

“...Yup,” Arthur agrees, nonplussed. He blinks at Bill, who fidgets some more. Eventually he shrugs, turns towards the door.

“Hey, Arthur?” Bill says suddenly.

“...Yes?”

“I, uh. Thing is-” More fidgeting, and a slightly cornered expression – even though Arthur has no clue what he’s getting at. “Bo was- She was real special. To you. And, real special in general, I guess. Ain’t never seen another horse who was so convinced she were a dog... But I don’t... Well, I- Meanin’ to say, is- Y’see... _dammit_ Arthur, you know I ain’t very good with the speechin’ and such!”

“...Okay?” Arthur says, perplexed.

“It’s just, if somethin’ happened to Brown Jack, I dunno- And, just... aw, hell.” 

Without warning, Arthur gets enveloped in a bear hug. 

“I’m just real, real sorry,” Bill exclaims, sounding damn near _tearful._

If Arthur’s ribs weren’t bruised before, he’s pretty sure they are now.

“Thanks, Bill,” he croaks, patting him on the back as best he can, given his arms are pinioned to his sides. After a long moment, Bill releases him, stepping back and adjusting his hat.

“Well, good talk. See you ‘round, Morgan.” And with that, Bill thumps him on the back at few times, knocking whatever breath was left out of his lungs, and strides off. 

Arthur leans against the stable door for a moment, wheezing and wondering what the hell just happened, before shaking his head and shuffling inside. Even in the cold, the barn smells like – well, a barn. Horse shit and old straw. But also the comforting smells of the horses themselves, worn leather, and pipe smoke that tickles his nose. He finds the source perched on the only chair in the building, keeping a watchful eye on the horses, and their captive.

“Has the O’Driscoll said anything useful, yet?” he asks, carefully slipping between the horses to stand by Charles and throw his meanest-looking glare at the snivelling wretch tied up to one of the support posts. Goddamn, how the hell did he even wind up running with the O’Driscolls in the first place? Colm usually only recruits nasty sons of bitches: mean, dumb, or both. Usually both. But he’s guessing this kid – and he _is_ a kid, he can see that now, can’t be much older than Sean – is just dumb. That or he’s one hell of an actor – Arthur isn’t sure if he’s ever met someone who looked so miserable and pathetic.

“Not yet,” Charles murmurs around his pipe.

“I, I really ain’t an O’Driscoll...” 

“Shut up, O’Driscoll,” Arthur snarls, but honestly, he doesn’t know why he’s even bothering – kid’s obviously too scared of Colm to rat him out. He elects to just ignore him for now, turning back to Charles. 

“How’s the hand?” he asks, motioning to the bandages – less of them now, than a couple of days ago. 

“It’ll be fine in a few more days,” Charles shrugs.

“Well, you keep resting it – that means not tryin’ to chop firewood!”

“Spare me, please. I haven’t been lectured like that since I was a child. _Felt_ like one too.”

“Heh, yeah, Miss Grimshaw has a knack for that. You need me to brush down Taima for you?”

“Thank you, but no,” Charles shakes his head, “she knows to stand still.” 

“Hmph. Unlike you, mister,” he grumbles as he steps over to the Tennessee Walker he got from the Adlers’ ranch. Stole, more like, now that he thinks of it, but Mrs. Adler hasn’t said anything – though possibly only because she’s too busy crying over her husband, poor woman. Arthur hasn’t even been able to get the little stallion’s name out of her. He’s a decent horse, and thankfully good-natured enough that he can be shut up in the barn with all these other horses he doesn’t know without starting a fight. But he still needs a lot of work and training, starting with how to hold still when someone’s trying to brush him. 

“Now this here,” he says, brandishing the packet in front of the horse’s face, “is my last oatcake. So you’d best behave now, you hear?”

The bay’s ears perk up in interest, but a whuff and a blast of warm air on the back of his neck make him turn. The flaxen roan Duffy had been riding – the one that had followed them back to camp – noses at him, ears also pricked up in interest. Arthur smiles, reaches up to pat her, but then there’s a cry from behind him.

“No, don’t hurt her, please!”

“Pipe down, O’Driscoll,” Arthur snaps in annoyance as the horses start shifting and stamping nervously.

“Please, please, I’ll do anything you want, I’ll tell you anything you want, just please, _please_ don’t hurt her, _anything, PLEASE_...” the kid gibbers – and then wails when Arthur pulls out his knife. But he crosses over to Duffy in three strides, crouches down before him, and presses the tip of the blade against his throat, effectively shutting him up.

“Are you sayin’, that you’ll do _anything,_ if I don’t hurt your horse?” Arthur growls.

“Y-yes, anythin’, please...” the kid whimpers. There’s a creak, and Arthur glances over his shoulder to see Charles has leaned forward in the chair – not standing, but prepared to jump up at any second. Arthur nearly rolls his eyes – partly because while he’s a nasty bastard, he’d like to think Charles knows he has _some_ standards. And partly because he’s very sure that Charles knows that _he_ knows that if he were inclined to start turning the kid into a pincushion, Charles absolutely can and will kick his ass, one-handed or not.

“Now you listen here, Kieran Duffy,” Arthur says lowly, turning back and lifting his knife under the boy’s chin to force him to look him in the eye. “‘Cause I will only say this once. You _do not_ repeat that, to _anyone_ in this gang. Nobody, you hear? Me n’ Mr. Smith are gonna pretend we never heard it. But I don’t care if it looks like someone’s about to start beatin’ on her with a red-hot poker – you keep your damn mouth _shut._ You hear me?”

The boy stares at him, wide-eyed.

“I said, _do you hear me?”_ he snarls, pressing just a little bit more with the knife. Because does he think the gang would torture a man’s horse to get information out of him? Hell no, most of them would never dream of it. Bill likes to play the bully, but Arthur doubts he’d stoop that low – especially after that display outside just now. No, the only one he’s really worried about is Micah – the man’s _definitely_ vile enough to try such a thing, if he thought he could get away with it. Arthur doesn’t think Dutch would ever authorise such methods, but...

Arthur didn’t think Dutch would ever purposely kill an innocent woman, either. So, he doesn’t know what to think.

“I- I hear ya,” Duffy stammers, giving the tiniest nod the knife at his throat will allow.

_“Good._ Now unless you got anything useful to say, shut up.”

With that, he sheathes his knife, grabs a currycomb and steps over to the little mare, who’s watching the proceedings anxiously. He keeps his movements slow and gentle as he pulls the saddle blanket away, left on to help keep her warm, and starts brushing her down.

She’d shown up on the outskirts of camp, reins dangling, not long after he’d returned with Duffy. Clearly cold and frightened, but determined to find her rider. A rare thing, to find a horse that brave, that loyal. Just like...

He doesn’t realise his hands have stilled until the mare huffs at him again, leaning her weight into his palms.

“What’s her name?” he asks suddenly.

“Uh, Br- Branwen. Her name’s Branwen.”

“...ain’t that Celtic?”

“Um, y-yes. Yes it is. Sir.”

“...huh.”

He blinks, throwing the kid a nasty glare as an afterthought. But he carries on smoothing the brush and his hands over her hide, getting lost in the familiar motions while he thinks about coincidences. 

“See?” he murmurs, more to himself, “’least someone knows how to stand still. Good girl...”

There’s another, softer snort, and he looks up to see Charles watching him, knowing smile on his lips. On principle, Arthur glares at him too. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work – if anything, Charles looks more amused. So Arthur just ducks around to the other side of Branwen. He daren’t look over at the O’Driscoll kid to see what he makes of Dutch Van der Linde’s ‘most ruthless enforcer’ being a complete sap.

And if either of them notice him splitting the last oatcake in half, giving one piece to the Adler horse and the other to Branwen, they’re wise enough not to say anything.

* * *

“Miss Matilda Jackson _the hell_ are you doin’?!”

It’s God-knows-when in the morning, and he’s been sitting at the fire for the past few hours, steadily feeding it more logs while Hosea sleeps in the cot. He’ll probably wake soon and they’ll swap, giving Arthur a couple more hours’ shut-eye before they go rob this train that Dutch is so set on. That’s if the blast of cold air from Tilly coming in through the front door hasn’t woken him already.

_“Lord,_ it’s cold out there,” she hisses, wrestling the door shut.

“You mad, girl? Wanna catch your death?” Arthur scolds as he steps over to her, helping to brush the snow off her coat.

“Oh stop it, you’re worse than Miss Grimshaw! Besides, I was only out there for a few minutes...”

_“Why?”_ Arthur demands as he frog-marches her to a seat in front of the fire.

“I had to get something from the wagons! You know Dutch’s _gramophone_ got packed?”

“Oh, wonderful,” Arthur sighs as he drops back down into the other chair. “And here I was thinkin’ there might be a silver linin’ in this whole mess.”

A sleepy grumble from Dutch and Molly’s room puts an end to their giggling, but Tilly’s smile gentles.

“How you doing, Arthur?” she asks.

“Me?” Arthur scoffs, hoping he doesn’t look too alarmed. “I’m fine.”

Tilly gives him a look she learned from Hosea. _Bullshit,_ it says, but politely.

“...Well, fine as can be, considering...” he waves a hand towards the front door, which he’s had to dig out every morning since they’ve been here.

“Sure is a far cry from the desert we was supposed to be in by now,” Tilly murmurs. But she still leans forward, knocking her knee against his expectantly. Never did let him off that easily. He sighs.

“And I guess I’m just... worried.” They’re talking in low voices anyway, mindful of the others sleeping, but now he daren’t speak much above a whisper. “We been in bad binds before, but this? This feels...”

“Worse,” Tilly agrees quietly. Arthur nods, staring into the flames.

“Look at the state of us,” he mutters. “Folks dead or missing. Marston’s half-eaten, the rest of us are half-frozen. We got an _O’Driscoll_ in camp, and a freshly-made widow with nowhere to go because we burned her house down, and Hosea’s...”

_“Micah_ burned Mrs. Adler’s house down,” Tilly corrects, frowning at him. “And Hosea’s gonna be fine, soon as we get outta these mountains. _We’re_ gonna be fine.” She squeezes his knee. “We’ll make it, Arthur. We always do. And besides,” she adds, giving him a reproachful look, “that weren’t what I was asking about, and you know it.” 

Arthur looks at his boots. Tilly sighs, but then gives him a small smile.

“I was the one who packed your things, when we realised we’d have to get outta there,” she says, laying a gentle hand on his arm, but digging into her coat with the other. “Afraid I only got the things in your smaller chest – didn’t have time to pack the big one. But, I managed to get all your little trinkets – your pictures and flower jar, and...”

She finally gets what she’s after out of her coat, and presses it into his hands where they rest in his lap. Arthur inhales sharply.

“John said you didn’t have the chance to get so much as a lock of her mane to remember her by. And then I remembered I’d packed this, so I thought...”

Arthur presses his lips together, hard, as his fingers trace over the old metal.

It was the first time he’d ever beaten Dutch in a race. He still remembers the feeling, the closest he thinks he’ll ever get to flying, as he pushed his new mare as hard as she could go for the first time; to see what she could do, and to maybe have a lead on Dutch for once, just for a little bit. To his surprise and elation, she’d held and _increased_ that lead all the way back to camp, and was still raring to go even when Dutch finally caught up, stunned expression on his face.

_“Jesus, Arthur – where the hell did you find her?! That ain’t a horse, that’s the wind with a saddle on it!”_

And as if that wasn’t enough, when Hosea finally brought up the rear with John, they revealed that Boadicea had thrown a shoe at the start of the race. 

_“Better hang on to that one, Arthur – clearly it’s lucky!”_

“You taught me to ride on Bo, remember?” Tilly asks softly as he continues to slowly turn the shoe over in his hands. “I’d only ever been a passenger, and you said that wouldn’t do, so you put me up on her back and left me there – and I started bawlin’ because I ain’t ever been on a horse that tall before and I was scared. And you _refused_ to let me down!” She swats him on the arm, but there’s a fond smile on her face. “And Bo just stood there, calm as anything – just kept turning back to look at me, like she was asking if I was okay! She was always so sweet...”

Arthur snorts softly, nodding. 

“Day I caught her...” he murmurs, staring at the horseshoe and trying to ignore the tightness in his throat, “it took me all damn morning – and a _fortune_ in sugar lumps – just to get her to let me close enough to get up on her back. Then she spent the whole damn _afternoon_ tossing me on my ass. Never ran far after she threw me though, let me try again. But I gave up eventually – pretty sure I was just one big bruise, by that point. And I’m lyin’ there in the dirt, hurtin’ all over and wonderin’ what the hell I’m gonna say to Miss Grimshaw to explain the state of my clothes. I hear a horse comin’ up, thought it was one of the others comin’ to check on me – or laugh at me, more like. But when I opened my eyes... it was her. This big, wild horse, standin’ right next to me – but instead of stompin’ my head in, she just started nosing at me. At the time, thought she just wanted more sugar lumps, but... reckon she was checking if I was okay.”

His eyes feel hot. Must be from staring at the fire too long.

“She always was overprotective of you... Heh, remember that time she knocked Dutch into a water trough?”

“...she did?”

“Oh come on, how could you forget that?!” Tilly giggles, “he was going off at you about something or other, I can’t even remember – and then she storms over and head-butts him! Knocked him right in!”

“...shit, yeah, I remember. And he got stuck! Remember him yellin’ his head off, wavin’ his arms and legs? Like a tortoise flipped on its back!”

Tilly stifles her laughter in his shoulder, and he has to muffle his own with his sleeve. But suddenly, to his dismay, the chuckles come out sounding hoarse and wet, and Tilly pulls back, eyebrows raised in concern.

“Oh, Arthur...”

“Ugh, I- sorry,” he mutters, swiping at his eyes and trying to pull himself together. But she just gives him a sad smile, wrapping her arms around one of his and tucking herself into his side.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says firmly.

“Shouldn’t be gettin’ all upset over a _horse...”_

“Don’t be a fool, I’d be worried if you _weren’t_ upset! Bo was real special. And she was part of the gang before most of the people were!” She hugs his arm tighter. “I know you’re supposed to be a ‘Big, Strong, Scary Gunslinger’. But, you know, you don’t gotta be strong _all_ the time.”

Arthur huffs something between a laugh and a sigh, but lets himself lean his head against hers.

“...Thanks, Tilly,” he murmurs after a while. She just hums and pats his arm, snuggling further into his side.

If she notices a couple more tears escaping and landing in her hair, she doesn’t mention it. But when Arthur finally falls into a doze, still clutching at Boadicea’s lucky shoe, his heart feels just a little bit lighter.

* * *

The weather’s finally starting to clear – and more importantly, so are Hosea’s lungs, at least enough for him to be able to stay outside for more than a minute, bundled up in every spare scarf and coat Miss Grimshaw could bully him into. He’s currently instructing Jack on the finer points in the art of snowman building. Arthur smiles as he watches, alternating between sketching in his journal and keeping an eye on the main street through the old settlement. Most of the gang are outside too, enjoying the sun that has the tiniest amount of warmth in it for the first time in days. It’s good to see real smiles on their faces again. 

Well, most of them.

“I’ll say it again: we’re gonna starve up here if we don’t leave soon,” Pearson grumbles as he goes about chopping and slicing.

“Well ain’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Arthur retorts, but Pearson just huffs.

“We’re nearly through all the venison you two brought back,” he gripes, nodding towards Charles. “Two whole deer, in as many days! I tell you, when I was in the Navy, we got by on one ration of biscuit and two rations of rum per day, and-”

“And you been making up for such lean pickings ever since, huh Pearson? Quit your whingin’!” Karen calls from where she and Mary-Beth are sharing a cigarette. Mary-Beth covers her giggles with a hand – but Uncle, Lenny and Javier, warming their hands over the scout fire, make no attempt to hide their chuckles.

“Whinging?!” Pearson stabs his cleaver into the butchery table. “Let me tell you about whinging! ‘Whinging’ is when you’re stuck up in the mountains, slaving away out in the cold, and the folks who get to sit inside in the warm all day start complaining about the ‘lack of variety in their diet’! I suppose I could start adding pine needles to the stew – reckon that’d give it a real nice kick, since you people are always complaining about it ‘lacking flavour’-” 

“Oh, calm down,” Arthur interrupts, “me n’ Charles can always go out and hunt some more if we-”

He’s cut short by a sudden, sharp pain in the back of his head. He freezes for a second in surprise – it’s only when he feels icy cold dampness starting to trickle down his collar that he slowly turns to face Karen and Mary-Beth, who are staring at him with wide-eyed expressions.

“Uh, sorry, Arthur, that was meant for Pearson...” Karen says sheepishly.

Back when he was about fifteen, Trelawney had sat him down one afternoon, declaring that he needed to learn some basic sleight-of-hand tricks. Arthur, who’d much rather have gone out for more riding and shooting lessons with Dutch, had mulishly sat through it, arms crossed the whole time. Trelawney eventually gave up, lamenting to Hosea that while they might have the makings of a fine gunslinger on their hands, their new protégé was no thief.

_“You think so, Josiah?”_ Hosea had asked from behind his newspaper.

_“I’m afraid so, my friend.”_

_“Then how come he’s got your pocket watch?”_

Trelawney had turned back in surprise to Arthur swinging the chain around his fingers, with what he suspects was an awfully smug grin on his face.

Arthur huffs a breath, fingers curling into fists. 

“You know, Pearson’s got a point,” he growls. “While ya’ll have been sittin’ around on your asses in front of the fire, we’ve been out riskin’ _our_ asses to keep you fed! Without so much as a ‘thank you’!”

“Aw, come on Arthur...”

“Don’t ‘come on Arthur’ me. _You_ try crawlin’ around in the snow and prayin’ that you’ll find some deer shit, see how much you like it!”

He’s nowhere near as good as he was when he was a kid (in his defence, his hands are a lot bigger these days). But he can still do a little bit of misdirection when he needs to.

“Oh don’t be like that, Arthur! ‘Course we’re grateful! We was just-” Karen’s cut off with a yelp as the snowball hits her right in the face. She stands there gaping at him. Arthur just smirks back at her, as those by the scout fire break down into guffaws.

“Oh, so you boys think that’s funny, do ya?” Karen rounds on them, a wicked grin appearing on her own face. Javier’s next to get hit in the forehead ( _“Mierda!”_ ), and when Lenny returns fire, it hits Mary-Beth’s shoulder, making her squeal.

“Oh, you’re askin’ for it!” she cries as she ducks to grab her own handful of snow. 

“Tilly! Get out here, we need back up!” Karen yells. Uncle looks like he’s about to throw a snowball at Tilly the moment she comes out the door, and that ain’t fair at all, so Arthur lobs his next snowball at him, knocking his hat right off. Uncle yowls, whirling to face him in surprise.

“Oh, you done it now, cowboy!” he bellows. “Boys, on me!”

And so all hell breaks loose. 

No doubt wondering about all the yelling and screeching, Miss Grimshaw appears, getting as far as “What on _Earth_ are-” before she gets hit by both Uncle _and_ Pearson. Jack suddenly starts popping up out of nowhere, not so much throwing his snowballs as just smacking them into people’s backsides and shrieking with laughter while they shriek in surprise. Even Charles joins in, aiming for people’s collars with frightening accuracy and leaving them squirming and squealing as the snow starts getting inside their shirts.

Somehow it turns into a three-way battle – the girls (Miss Grimshaw would make for one hell of a Field marshal) versus Jack and Arthur (“Get ‘em Uncle Arthur!”) versus Lenny, Uncle and Javier, with rogue agents Charles and Mr. Pearson slinking around and pelting anyone they can. Hosea, as so often happens in their silly camp games, has become referee, perched atop the remains of an old chimney and calling out the ‘scores’. Safely tucked in a doorway, Strauss and Swanson laugh, and even Mrs. Adler watches on in bemusement. 

For a few minutes, the whistling wind, groaning ice, and whispering ghosts of Colter are drowned out by shrieking laughter.

But suddenly, the door to their cabin opens, and Dutch storms out, Miss O’Shea in tow.

“What the _hell_ is going on out here?!” he barks. They all freeze, looking at each other – Lenny’s still got his arm pulled back mid-throw.

“Uh...”

“We was just...”

Dutch glares around at them all. His hair is all mussed, and there’s the dent of fabric folds visible in his left cheek. Arthur cringes a little. Usually, Dutch is an early riser – but if he’s been up late the night before, he can be a _mean_ bastard if you wake him up too early.

“Oh, come on Dutch, it’s just a bit of fun,” Molly cajoles, laying a hand on his arm, but Dutch brushes her away. 

“‘Fun’? _Fun?_ We are stuck up in the middle of nowhere, without a cent to our names and the law huntin’ us anyway, and you think it’s a good time for _fun?_ We got Uncle Sam after our heads, and you all think it’s a good time to act like _children?!”_

“But, I’m a children,” Jack whispers, looking up at Arthur with a worried expression. Arthur just tugs him closer so the boy can lean into his legs, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly.

“You’re a ‘child’, Jackie, and you’re fine,” he murmurs.

“Ah, go back to bed and quit being such a sourpuss,” Hosea calls from his perch, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette even as Dutch rounds on him. He’s one of the very few people who can glare right back at Dutch, unfazed.

“Oh? Are you not the one who keeps saying we should be _lying low?_ Do you not think any bounty hunters roaming these parts would have heard all that screeching and carrying on?!”

“’bout as well as they can hear your yellin’,” Hosea counters, taking a disinterested drag from his cigarette. 

“Oh for- I’m not sure if you all _recall,_ my friends, but we are _outlaws,_ and we are currently walkin’ the razor’s edge between-”

It’s burgeoning into a full-blown lecture. Arthur looks around and all the faces – split into wide grins, eyes scrunched up with laughter only moments ago, but now ranging between uncomfortable to annoyed to increasingly upset as they’re reminded of their dire situation. Looks back at Jack, who’s now outright hiding behind his legs.

Looks back at Dutch. 

“-got the time and energy for _snowball fights,_ but not for choppin’ firewood or finding any _food-”_

He’s right, of course. These are hard times. And in hard times, sometimes you gotta make hard calls.

So Arthur ducks, scoops, aims, and _hurls._

It smacks Dutch right in the face.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then Dutch splutters, most of the snow falling away from his face, but still perfectly coating his moustache. 

And Arthur knows he’s in for the lecture of the century, and quite possibly the next one too. But the uproar, as everyone breaks down into peals of laughter (he has to hold Jack up so the boy doesn’t topple over. Hosea laughs so hard at Dutch’s flabbergasted expression he falls off the chimney into a snowdrift), makes it absolutely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an extra dose of fluff: the ‘silly camp games’ line refers to [this post](https://pipdepop.tumblr.com/post/189024437103/okay-i-really-cant-add-another-fic-to-the-to) (which I never did get around to turning into a proper fic oops) 
> 
> Also, as a heads up, while hopefully a somewhat-believable prelude to the game, this fic also acts as a prelude of sorts to my first real multi-chapter fic, which I’ve been mulling over for the better part of a year, but might actually finally take a crack at writing. So if I don’t post anything for a while (well, longer than usual), I’m not dead, I’m just trying to convince my goldfish brain to commit to one fic :3
> 
> Either way, I hope everyone has a safe and happy festive season, and, as always, thank you for reading <3


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